it seems endlessly in and out of streets
that once were klongs, but now
are fierce cement, where motorbikes and cars,
quick and greedy, grasp each other’s fumes.
You lay awake and watched his back,
hoping there to find a place where beauty was
invincible, but saw instead the rise and fall of breath.
He spoke of love, water buffaloes and going home,
and if you know now
it was a lie, do not hate him, there isn’t time.
Today, when you visit Wat Phra Keo
to see a Buddha carved green as deep water,
you’ll hear the wind release the temple bells:
Ani’chung. Impermanent. There isn’t hate,
isn’t love. Ani’chung. There isn’t time.
Ani’chung, ani’chung, ani’chung.